


I’m Blue {Da Ba Dee}

by CypressSunn



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: History Jokes, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:00:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23627317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CypressSunn/pseuds/CypressSunn
Summary: “All right, it's time for you to explain yourself,” Alex says, dead serious. “And you can’t blame this one on the Nazis… What is the deal with the blue hair?”
Relationships: Alex Manes/Forrest Long
Comments: 25
Kudos: 91
Collections: 101 Prompts Meme





	I’m Blue {Da Ba Dee}

**Author's Note:**

> Song title and lyrics from Eiffel 65 and the year 1998.  
> Prompt #36: Bright

_“ Blue are the people here that walk around  
Blue like my Corvette, it's in and outside  
Blue are the words I say and what I think  
Blue are the feelings that live inside me”  
— Eiffel 65_

“Totally-Lost-Guy!” rings out a chipper voice. Alex looks up from his console, train-of-thought broken. His wing of the base has been quieter than usual; fewer yes-men gathered around the water cooler and hogging the printer ink. Work on the aerodrome’s new security rollout permitted mid-tier officers to dole out assignments electronically; meaning the number of stupid questions Alex has had to answer all morning whittled down to zero. That was until found himself wondering why he was being greeted by deep blue hair and a smile that had no place on his airbase.

“How did you get back here?”

“Uh, good morning to you too,” Forrest Long looked a little thrown by his lack of warm welcome, but it doesn’t stop him from eagerly tapping the dangling plastic badge clipped to his shirt. It read VISITOR. “There was a woman at the front desk. She directed me to you.”

“Shirley knows better than that.” She had served at that secretary's desk longer than Alex had been alive.

“Okay, um, full disclosure, I may have _implied_ that you were expecting me, which made the little old lady a little frazzled when I said you might get impatient—”

“You made her think she missed something on my schedule and she shooed you back here to cover for it.” Alex checked the box marked ‘duplicitous’ under his mental list of Forrest, Long. “Smart. Now, what exactly do you want.”

“Wow, you really are the straight-shooter everyone says you are.” Forrest sits down in a nearby seat without it being offered. Alex sighs. Checks off ‘passive aggressive small town pleasantries.’

“Shooting straight is why they let me wear the uniform.”

Forrest grins. All cheekbones and teeth and honesty. “Look, I’m sorry for lying, but that woman out there was pretty scary-looking and I panic when I’m scared.”

Alex doesn’t buy it. “Shirley has six great grand-kids and is bound to blow away in a strong breeze any day now.”

“Like I said, an absolutely terrifying octogenarian. And if she’s the kind of person who wants to stay in your good books that probably means you're a force to contend with yourself.”

Alex checked the boxes ‘flattery’ and ‘verbose’, too. The man was a Long, clearly trying to prove he isn’t some dumb hick before winding up to whatever he came here for. Alex prepared himself for the fast-talking.

“Now,” Forrest gesticulates with a friendly ease, “I know you're at the edge of your seat wondering why I’m here.”

“I can barely stand the suspense—”

“Sarcasm or not, I’ll take it, because I need your help getting into the old Roswell Army Flying School.” Forrest was not deterred by Alex rolling his eyes. “Hey, hear me out! Its for my research and hands-on up-close photos would just be a once in a lifetime opportunity for me and—”

“Hate to burst your bubble but you wasted a trip out here.” It's a lie of course. Part of Alex is more than happy to tell him no. With Project Shepherd and Operation Alien Lazarus piled on top of his regular air force duties, Alex’s plate was full enough. And all that didn’t even scratch the surface of whatever it was that he and Michael were or weren’t doing on their historical scavenger hunt.

“The Flying School closed way back in the twenties. They hollowed it out and they turned it into the Walker Base for a couple decades, all before closing it down again during—”

“During the federal funding cuts from the Vietnam War. Yeah, I know.”

Alex pauses. Okay. Definitely not a dumb hick.

“But word on the street is that a lot of the old Flying School got stripped and hauled off from the brick and mortar before the air base was up and running.”

“Oh really? That’s what they’re saying on the street, huh?”

Forrest laughs. It's not a bad laugh. “You’re right, no one is saying that. But just because the storage sites aren’t public knowledge doesn’t make them classified. It's all forgotten historical junk in the middle of nowhere, and in case you didn’t know, that’s the very best junk to have.”

Alex cracks a smile in spite of himself. Forrest long was an emphatic character, clearly. From his boundless enthusiasm to the wiggle of his eyebrows at his lame double entendre. “I’ll take your word on that.”

“So what do you say, Sergeant Manes? Will you help me out? Twenty, thirty minutes of your time is all I’m asking for.”

Alex mulls it over, and shrugs. What’s one more wild goose chase?

***

Forrest is thrilled when Alex makes the call. He’d seen school children less excited to meet their first puppy. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you—”

“Stop thanking me,” Alex says, climbing into a base regulation transport Humvee, “or I call my superiors and take it back.”

“C’mon, you gotta feel some anticipation!” Forrest protests, jovial and bouncing. “Also do we really get to ride in this thing? In the front seat and everything.”

“I can strap you to the hood if you’d like.”

Forrest chuckles and buckles in. “You’re not the hard-ass everyone said you were. I mean, I can tell you want to be, but you’re not.”

“Are you willing to test that hypothesis?” Alex deadpans. “Or wait, do you need me to define a hypothesis first? I know the softer sciences don’t deal in such rigorous testing.”

“Wow… a dig at the _humanities_.” Forrest clutches his chest in mock pain. “Let me guess, you, Alex Manes, studied aeronautical engineering. And you really hate people who think the air force stuck you in a cockpit when you turned eighteen without a degree.”

Alex turns onto the crisscrossing lanes of the airbase tarmac, conceding a single nod of agreement. “Top of my class.” He spares a glance at Forrest, running a hand through his odd blue hair, trying to figure out how to run down the Humvee's windows. “Most people don’t know that about the air force.”

“I’m not most people. As a guy with a history degree, I generally try not to underestimate people… especially the ones who could kill me and get away with it.”

Alex grips a little tighter on the steering wheel. Tells himself it's a joke. Forrest Long, close relation of the dead and murdered Kate Long, had no idea about any murder conspiracy, or alien cover-up. Only a healthy misapprehension of the armed forces. That had to be it… and Alex couldn’t begrudge him that.

***

The storage site is so poorly maintained that Alex is almost sure they’d head back the second the padlocks came off. There’s rows and rows of scrap and metal heaped in piles and disarray. Some of it might have been bunk beds, headboards and guns once. Further back there are precarious stacks of poorly labeled crates, all Alex had no difficulty believing to be over a hundred years old. The mess would have deterred the average person, but Forrest Long was clearly in heaven.

“Do you have any idea what this is!?” he asks breathlessly, brandishing a hunk of metal.

“My guess is ancient, ineffective ordinance…”

Forrest throws up his hands, grinning, “Exactly!”

“You’re lucky most of this stuff is just practice rounds from World War I. And aren’t you a Nazi history buff? Shouldn’t you be more concerned with the second war?”

“That’s a common misconception!” Forrest explains, prying open a dusty box. “They’re not two separate wars. More of a continuation of the same story where you can’t understand one without the other… Like if you think of them like the Godfather: Part One and Two.”

“I’d rather not,” Alex says, misgiving. “That kind of implies how bad World War III is gonna suck.”

Forrest laughs so hard he inhales dust and Alex rushes over to him. His hacking fit doesn’t stop until Alex pounds on his back with one hand and uses his fist to keep him standing with the other. 

“Are you— still laughing?” Alex asks, aghast.

“What? You're a funny guy.”

Alex shakes his head, and he starts laughing too.

***

Thirty minutes stretches into an hour. An hour turns to two and then three. But by the time Alex radios into base, Shirely has already shelved most of the non-essentials and relays his final orders to his team. Forrest apologizes much the same way he expresses gratitude; with zeal and overindulgence. “I really didn’t think there would be so much here, and in salvageable condition. I’m sorry to take up your whole day.”

“It's fine. I needed the breather. And that fresh mildew smell doesn’t hurt.”

“Just admit you’re having fun. It won’t hurt, I promise.”

“You might look at all of this and see something of value but…” Alex catches himself. Forrest, of course doesn’t pretend to not notice him trailing off. He stands still and uncharacteristically quiet, waiting for Alex to gather his thoughts. “Me and history don’t mix is all I’m saying. Anytime I look backwards, I don’t like what I see.”

“Oh.” Forrest deflates. “Now, I get that, I mean. The western, imperialist focus on history is—”

Alex chuckles, cutting him off. “No, no, no. This isn’t a Native thing. It's all family trauma. Still very much about angry white guys, but not in the way you’re thinking.”

Forrest doesn’t comment other than to return Alex’s self-deprecating smile, and goes back to digging around boxes. Alex can’t pin down what exactly, but he’s grateful for it. Forrest doesn’t press or pry, simply cheers when he finds a bunch of discontinued military badges stashed away. The way he rifles around in them, Alex is afraid he’s going to give himself tetanus.

“Don’t worry,” he holds up a silver winged statuette, “I’ve had my shots.”

“I can’t wait to tell Kyle that when I wheel you into his ER. And that it was all for an Aeronaut Badge. You know they only flew hot air balloons right?”

“Helium balloons, actually. And, wait, that’s right! You and Kyle Valenti go way back.” Alex can’t figure why that realization means anything to Forrest. After a while, he puts the pins back and continues. 

“You know, in the boom years — what they call the military expansion all over New Mexico in World War II — it was more than just nuclear testing and weapons tech. So much of the scientific community planted roots in Roswell that generations later even our hospitals have med trials way ahead of most other southern states. We rank right up there with the Mayo Clinic out of Phoenix. Without all this, your friend Kyle wouldn’t have such a nice hospital to work at.”

Alex smiles. Out of all the facts Forrest has rattled off, this feels like something he’s trying to prove, even if Alex can’t tell to what end. 

“What I’m saying is… there’s a lot of bad history here, but some of it managed to turn into something else. Some of it turned into good.”

Alex takes a long breath. “You really believe that?”

Forrest does not answer right away.

“I want to,” he says. He doesn’t sound sure. It's the first time he’s given away anything like this; like he didn’t have an answer or a hidden fact to explain it all away. He looks half scared, but half brave, too, when he admits it. “I think it's what I tell myself because I think I have to. It's how I make peace with it.”

On his mental checklist, Alex adds “vulnerable” and “coping” but he’s not sure what either really means for this blue-haired maniac who’s swept away the last six hours of his life. It wouldn’t be until later that Alex understood the sensation filling him up, the strange need to know more and show more in return. But he can’t bring himself to overstep then, not when Forrest has already been kind enough to avoid all of Alex’s old war wounds.

They pack it in and get back on the road.

***

Wheeling back into the airbase lot, Alex turns to Forrest. “So this history book you’re writing, its all about how aliens are a misdirection for Nazi sympathizers? Have you considered the fact that alien memorabilia is half the town's economy?”

“What about it?”

“Well, Nazis don’t really sell like science fiction.”

Forrest gives Alex a look. “I don’t expect my book to be hot-seller on the local market. If I ever even get published. But my chances are on the up with all these photos you let me take. Can I thank you one more time?”

“Nope.”

“How about you let me buy you a beer?”

“Can’t.”

“Wait, why not?”

“Because then we officially move into bribery territory.”

“That’s bull. You've literally, single-handedly bumped up my chances of ever getting published. I’m going to have to rewrite my acknowledgements and slip your name in. I cannot overstate how this kind of access elevates my work and—”

“Okay, Nazi Guy,” Alex raises a placating hand, “we can grab some burgers and a drink.”

“But can I pick a different nickname, first?”

***

“Maybe we could go somewhere else,” Forrest asks apprehensively. Alex is leading him into The Wild Pony. 

Alex pauses. He really did want to check up on Maria, kill two birds with one stone. “If you want the Crashdown, they've got better fries,” Alex concedes. “But no liquor license.”

“Yeah, how about that malt shoppe Graham Green just opened?”

Alex laughs. “Yeah no.” Alex may be on the rocks with Maria, and he may not know how to talk to Liz or Rosa anymore, but that was a level of treason he would never sink to. Mimi and Arturo kept him fed on the days and nights he struggled to go home while Graham Green’s brother complained about his unsatisfactory employee appearance at the UFO Emporium. The Green family would never see a cent from Alex.

“It's that…” Forrest shuffles on his feet, his hands stuffed in his blue jeans. “I really don’t think I should go in there.” 

Alex raises an eyebrow.

“Alex, look, this town is small enough that I don't need you to tell me that you've been tight with the DeLucas and the Ortechos your whole life. Small enough that I don't need to explain to you that for me and my family its a different story—”

“Are you telling me you’ve got a problem with Maria DeLuca? Because then you’ve got a problem with me.”

Forrest bites his lip. A lock of blue falls in his face and he doesn’t wipe it away. “Look. My cousin, Wyatt, last year he blew out the fuse-box in the Crashdown… with a bullet. And nothing happened. Nobody got hurt but nothing else happened. He didn’t get arrested or charged or anything. Because we have a relative who’s gonna get reelected mayor and nothing is gonna keep on happening… because that’s all that ever happens.”

Forrest can’t look at Alex, but Alex can’t look away. 

“Wyatt’s gonna keep doing stupid shit and getting away with it and what I'm saying is that i can eat and drink at any bar in Roswell be fine. Be welcome. Because I'm a Long—”

“Because you're white,” Alex adds.

“That too…” Forrest looks miserable, ineloquent and tired. “What I'm saying is, just because I like to think I stand out from the family pack, doesn’t mean that I’m… free of the crap my family pulls. Does that make sense?”

“More than you know.” The words come out of Alex quiet and hurting and so very guilty. In the face of all that hurt, what was left to do except— “You run in the opposite direction because you're trying not to make it worse.”

Forrest nods, slight and warm. “I mean, I haven't tried to shoot anyone but… it's all that family black sheep baggage, you know?” Forrest mumbles something else awkwardly and hikes a thumb over his shoulder. “We can still try the Malt Shoppe?”

Alex tilts his head to the side. “You do know your cousin was also _accused_ of shooting Grant Green, right?”

“That was him being a drunk idiot, though,” Forrest winces, “not a drunk _racist_ idiot.”

Alex laughs. “I promise you, if you’re thirsty you’ll be welcome at the Wild Pony. Maria will probably be happier to see you then she will to see me.”

***

His premonition comes true. Inside the Wild Pony, Maria’s eyes zero in on them instantly. Her smile takes a second to follow. She’s still hurt. Not enough time has passed. “What can I get you boys,” is all she asks when they sit at the bartop.

“First you can clear up if a Long’s money is good here in this fine establishment.” Maria frisks Alex over with a look, like they are about to launch into the argument over whether the Pony counts as a dive bar yet again. “Forrest thinks he’s invading the sanctified drunkenness of the Pony with his family history.”

“It's cute of him to think so, but I serve plenty of racists, right wingers and sexists assholes. Besides, I’ve been fleecing Wyatt at pool for years now. Not that he’d ever admit it.” Maria unscrews a beer and hands it to Alex before she pours a tall glass of something pale. A Pilsner maybe. She slides it to Forrest.

“Oh, I didn’t order—”

“Trust me, you like it,” and Maria sweeps off down the counter to earn her money.

“But what if I don’t?” Forrest asks, wearily.

“She’s already right,” Alex says with the bottle to his lips. “You get used to it… Kinda.”

Later, a waitress swings by with a platter of burgers and wedge fries and Forrest is starting to believe Alex when he says Maria is psychic. “How else would she know I like my onions on the side?”

“Nazi mind reading technology?” Alex says blankly.

“You can laugh all you want but German espionage will always make more sense than aliens!”

The truth is, Alex doesn't envy Forrest Long or any other poor soul in Roswell with enough brain cells to rub together. The blatant way that nothing in this town added up. It left people on edge, trying to place the implacable. They all went running, searching in the wrong direction for answers, for threats, never finding enough to be satisfied. None of them ever comprehending that the worst kept secret in Roswell was right beneath their noses.

But there were at least some questions that they _could_ answer tonight.

“All right, it's time for you to explain yourself,” Alex says, dead serious. “And you can’t blame this one on the Nazis… What is the deal with the blue hair?”

Forrest smiles into his beer. “Oh. I, uh, I lost a bet.”

“That’s all?”

“Yep. That’s it.”

“You lost a bet over what?”

Forrest rubs the back of his neck. “Honestly? I can’t even remember.”

“Black out drunk?”

“No! It was just, it was ten years ago.”

Alex looks incredulous. “You have been dying your hair blue for ten years? How _badly_ did you lose?”

“No, it’s more complicated than that, and its…” Forrest’s voice trailed off. He swallows down the last of his drink. He looks an inch away from fearful again. But Alex still sees the mettle underneath. “Its was Katie’s senior year, and there was so many graduation parties and dumb end-of-school pranks and beginning-of-the-rest-of-your-life stunts. And I lost some bet to Katie and her friend Jasmine where I promised, I told Katie she could cut my hair and dye it bright pink. Like hot, hot pink.”

Alex groans out a laugh.

“You clearly have no sisters, or close female relatives if you think that's a laughing matter.”

“I have a Maria DeLuca,” Alex corrects, matter-of-fact, “and school photos from sophomore year that will never see the light of day.”

Forrest leans closer over the bar-top, nostalgic and soft. “So maybe you _do_ get the idea.” There’s a heavy set remembrance when Forrest ruffles his hand through his hair, leaving it almost artfully skewed to the side. 

“And ah, well. You can fill in the rest of the story. Kate died. Y'know, she was just gone and… And she never got to give me the haircut from hell… And i never got to tell her that i wasn't afraid of pink because I never got to come out to her.” The grief passing over Forrest’s eyes is still raw. “That’s what we got left with. A lot of never's and never-again's.”

The way Alex’s hand meets Forrest at his shoulder is reflexive. A fraction of tension ebbs away from him and doesn’t return. Alex has to marvel at it, if only for a moment. He’d gotten used to the pulling away. He’d gotten used to not being able to offer relief. But in a moment’s time, Forrest runs his thumb over the spot Alex had touched when after his hand fell away. An unmistakable gesture. Forrest sits up straighter, lighter, and continues:

“Now whenever I miss her, I do something crazy, stupid with my hair. To make it up to her. I’ve had highlights, frosted tips, and about any cut that isn’t a mullet.”

“My god,” Alex says in real horror.

“I know, I know. But the blue is actually growing on me—”

“No, I mean, picturing you with a mullet. You’d fit in with the rest of the Longs so well.”

Forrest jabs a playful finger at Alex. “I may not agree with most of my family but at certain point I will have to defend their honor.”

Alex tilts his head, unphased. “And you’re welcome to die trying, while you’re at it.”

***

They spend far too much time shooting the breeze, ordering drinks and filling up Maria’s tip jar. The pair of them are slouched over and laughing when Forrest asks, “Is it really too late to convince you that I’m cool?”

“I saw you in full nerd-mode,” Alex points out. “You were like a hyperactive puppy if lame historical artifacts were chew toys.”

“That’s really not fair. And they weren’t lame. I got to hold an Aeronaut Badge!”

Forrest shuffles off to the restroom and Maria appears just in time to watch him go. “He's a good one. He's got a calm, deep blue aura all around him.”

Alex raises an eyebrow. “Is that aura as blue as his hair?”

“No, his energy is… the same blue as yours.” Maria tilts her head. “I like him for you. He’s wholesome.”

Alex has been afraid she would say something like that. “Maybe he's too wholesome. I’m tired of ruining things.” Alex sighs.

Maria gives him a pitying look.

“Shit, I said that out loud, didn’t I?”

She nods.

“You know I’m sorry right? For everything? Even though keeping secrets is my job and I don’t always do it right and—”

Maria holds up her hand. “Alex, don’t. One of these days I’m going to drive out to your place, and you and me will sit down, and we’re gonna hash this out. All of it; from bad to ugly; the way we used to. But not tonight, and not while you’ve been drinking.” Maria moves to go serve some small town lush when Alex reaches out to stop her.

“Did I ever thank you for the piercings?” She looks confused but he presses forward. “In high school. We were screwing around, after we got those concert tickets and I wanted piercings to piss off my dad. So you used an ice cube and an apple wedge with—”

“A hot needle and a shot of stolen bourbon. I remember.” Maria smiles at the memory. “Why are you thinking about that?”

“It’s just nice, y’know?” But even as Alex says it he’s not sure if even he knows. “Sometimes when I look back. Its not all bad. The kids we used to be, and who they wanted to be…”

“I like who we turned out to be,” Maria admits, gentle and honest. “Most days, at least.” Stretching out across the counter, Maria musses up his hair. “And in case you didn’t, you still have time to be exactly who you want to be. Whoever you’re supposed to be.”

Somehow, like always, it's exactly what he needs to hear.

“And who is that?”

She kisses his cheek. “My favorite mess, of course.”

***

Alex sobers up quicker. He’s an efficient man inside and out. Forrest is embarrassed, leaning against the door as Alex drives him back to the Long family farm.

“I don't tell most people that story about Kate.” The way he says it sounds like an apology.

“I'm glad you told me.”

“I don’t because… I don’t want to make you feel bad about your friend, Rosa—”

Alex waves him off, not unkindly. “It’s fine, really.”

“It’s not though. My family, Wyatt, they don’t like admitting that Kate wasn’t perfect. That she drank too much. And pills. She had a problem with pills.” Alex hadn't known that. All the stories about Kate Long had been pristine and tragic when juxtaposed against the girl everyone had blamed. “No one wants to talk about it but it hadn’t been Rosa Ortecho driving that car, it would have been her or Jasmine. And it all would have ended the same way.”

Alex wants to say something. Something true. Something that will take the blame and grief away. But it's still not his story to tell. And there’s no magic words for this kind of hurt.

Outside the Long family drive way, Forrest steps out before leaning back in. “You’ll have to tell me a Rosa story someday.”

“I don’t know,” Alex muses. “I’ve got war stories that don’t compare to that girl. So it’s not much of an even trade.”

“Or,” Forrest pulls a little white square from his back pocket. “This is my number. In case you ever wanna catch up on things that aren’t small town trauma or armed conflicts.” It’s a smooth offer, nonchalant, even.

“You wrote your number on a napkin from the Wild Pony?”

“Yeah? So what?”

“Meaning you were planning on giving it to me earlier, but you chickened out.”

Forrest bites his lip. “You just couldn’t let me get away with that one, could you?”

Alex could tell him that he almost made his move. Between the fresh air on the Pony’s back patio and the parking light under the fluorescent light where Forrest had looked too bright to look at, almost too good to be true. But kissing him then felt like skipping a chapter, spoiling an ending. And Alex was finally realizing how good it would feel, how much he would enjoy finally starting something new.

But of course he doesn’t say any of that. Just double checks the mental list he’s been compiling all day long titled Long-Comma-Forrest before he wipes it away. 

“You know you’re going into my phone as Nazi Guy, right?”

Forrest lets out a chagrined noise. “Please don’t, I am begging you.”

Alex doesn’t let him off that easy. It'll be the first thing he learns about Alex.

“You’re gonna have to earn a better nickname.”

***

In the morning, the small town gossips are at it, again. Roswell’s second worst kept secret; that Forrest Long and his crush on Alex Manes. Or was it Alex Manes and his crush on Forrest Long? While they were still figuring it out, Alex’s phone beeps between updates from Operation Alien Lazarus and the air field’s security schematics. The screen blinks on, and Alex smiles, reading: [1] unread message from: NOT ACTUALLY A NAZI GUY.

_**fin.** _

**Author's Note:**

> Researching historical facts about Roswell, New Mexico for Forrest was so fun, but please know I took a few liberties with the details. Also I'm sorry for all the times Nazis are mentioned. And please don't pierce your own ears at home, I'm in no way advocating that. And don't write slice-of-life fic, kids. It's ridiculous and you stay awake past 2 AM writing a fic with no plot but sad character exploration that you barely proofread. Please, learn from my mistakes.
> 
> And I'm perfectly aware that all of this possibly slants towards out of character to straight up conjecture on the part of Forrest Long. We know next to nothing about him but I choose to believe he's a harmless uber nerd who misses his cousin and cares about systemic racism. {Also hopeless idiot who's way too smart for his own good is totally Alex's type.} I just really do want to see where Forrest being a Long and having a personal connection to one of the murdered girls goes in this story. And if we will ever actually see Alex reacting to Rosa and that night and any of the alien foul play involved? ::shrugs::


End file.
